


The tune without the words

by greenapricot



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e04 Expiation, M/M, gentle pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: They’ve only been working together a few months and already James can’t imagine working with anyone else. He didn’t fit in the priesthood, he doesn’t really fit in the police either, but somehow, miraculously, he fits with Lewis.
Relationships: James Hathaway/Robert Lewis
Comments: 30
Kudos: 160





	The tune without the words

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up immediately after the last scene in Expiation. 
> 
> Title from _“Hope” is the thing with feathers- _by Emily Dickinson.__
> 
> This is not the long WIP I keep going on about, that one is still in the works, but I needed a break. So, I found this, which I had completely forgotten about writing, languishing half-finished in my fic folder and finished it.

“There.” James drops the pad of paper on the table and downs what’s left of his third pint. “I’ll type it up in the morning.”

Lewis taps the pad, pulling it toward him across the wooden table. He gives it a quick once-over before slipping it into his jacket pocket. James watches as his words are pressed to Lewis’ chest, protected there inside the fabric of his jacket. 

“Thank you,” Lewis says, his tone as casual as if James has handed him a cup of coffee; his expression so unaccountably fond James has to look away. 

He isn’t drunk, not yet, but he’s made good progress with three pints on an empty stomach; the buzz of adrenaline and gratitude now faded to a pleasant beery haze. 

“It’s the least I can do,” James says, swaying a bit where he’s still perched on the stone wall behind the table. And it is, the very least. Now that Lewis has stuck his neck out for him, called Innocent’s bluff to prevent him from being demoted, James will have to come up with something more to express his gratitude than speech writing and his usual anticipatory cups of coffee.

He has no illusions that Lewis would have followed him into uniform, he would have taken early retirement or the training position Innocent tried to shunt him into when he first returned from the BVI, not donned a uniform and walked the streets answering tourists’ questions. But Lewis had looked serious, Innocent had thought he was serious, and no one has ever done something like that for James before. James would have resigned had Lewis not been there, found a third ill-advised career to pursue, but that doesn’t change the fact of what Lewis did or the tightness in James’ chest when he thinks about standing there next to Lewis with Innocent glaring daggers at both of them; that heady feeling of the two of them together, united against anything that may come along. 

They’ve only been working together a few months and already James can’t imagine working with anyone else. He didn’t fit in the priesthood, he doesn’t really fit in the police either, but somehow, miraculously, he fits with Lewis. 

James slides down off the wall and onto the bench, his foot slipping on the wood, and Lewis’ hand is on his arm, preventing him from bashing his head on the stone behind him as he grabs onto the edge of the table to keep himself upright. 

“Steady on there.” Lewis’ hand lingers at the crook of James’ elbow even after James is safely sat on the bench. And there’s that feeling again—a feeling that has been cropping up with Lewis’ every casual touch for weeks now—warmth radiating from where Lewis’ hand is still resting on his arm. James doesn’t quite manage to not lean into it. Lewis gives his arm a slight squeeze and that warmth becomes fluttering wings that skitter their way up to James’ throat. “Time to get you home, aye?”

“Yeah,” James manages. When Lewis gives James’ arm another light squeeze before letting go, he does not put his hand on Lewis’ to keep it there.

“Up you get,” Lewis says, his smile almost tender, eyes crinkling with kindness. “Fancy a curry on the way home?”

*

“You can let me out here,” James says when Lewis pulls into his street. “Parking’s always terrible. Unless—” James hesitates, it’s the beer that’s making him this bold, the curry not quite enough to temper it. He shouldn’t and yet— “I’ve got a bottle of Bowmore 15.” 

Lewis gives him a considering look that slides into a small smile. “Needs drinking does it?”

“I think it may.” Lewis doesn’t need to know that James bought the bottle to celebrate after he agreed to take James on permanently as his sergeant. 

After the week and the case they’ve had, James ought to have had enough of Lewis, certainly Lewis should have had enough of him. James ought to want to go home and sit in his flat alone and turn the stereo up loud enough to drown out the world and every unwelcome thought the case has brought into his head. But Lewis keeps looking at him. Lewis is always looking at him, of course, hard to work with someone if you never look at them, but not like this. All evening there has been a fondness to Lewis’ gaze that is all out of proportion to the activities at hand, starting with the moment Lewis thanked James for finishing the speech, continuing over chicken vindaloo—pressed together in a cramped booth in a busy restaurant—and into the drive home. 

“Parking then,” Lewis says. There is, surprisingly for this time of night, a spot two doors down from James’ flat, like some sort of sign. 

James sheds his jacket, dropping it over the back of the sofa, and heads straight for the kitchen cabinet and the whisky. While he gets down the bottle and glasses, he watches Lewis cast a critical eye over his flat. All the times James has been in Lewis’ flat since they started working together and this is the first time Lewis has been here. He wonders what Lewis is thinking as he makes a circuit of the room, what the things he sees are telling him about James; the books stacked haphazardly on the shelves, the music for the band’s newest song scattered across the coffee table, the guitar on the armchair, the nearly full ashtray on the side table, the dishes in the sink, the paper coffee cup that Lewis handed him for no discernible reason two nights ago still sitting on the corner of the breakfast bar. James grabs the cup—why had he carried it all the way home anyway?—and bins it before Lewis notices.

Lewis is standing in front of the bookshelf that contains James’ records when he brings him a glass. He’s removed his suit jacket and laid it over the top of James’. James does his best to ignore the twinge of longing at the sight of their jackets together like that.

“Put something on if you like,” James says. 

Lewis runs his fingers down the record spines, reading the titles, tipping a couple out to glance at the covers before sliding them into place again, and finally settling on a selection of Louis Spohr concertos. When Lewis turns away from the bookshelf, having put the record on, James hands him the glass of whisky. Their fingers brush and James doesn’t lean into the contact. Lewis looks down into his glass, then at James’ own less full glass. 

“You trying to get me drunk, sergeant?” 

“You’ve got some catching up to do, sir.” 

“Is that how it is?” That almost affectionate smile again, now with a mischievous edge to it. James’ stomach does a little flip. 

James raises his glass. “To not wearing a pointy hat.”

“Indeed,” Lewis says, and James can’t keep his eyes from falling to Lewis’ lips as he takes a sip. 

Lewis ambles over to the sofa and sits down. He looks good sitting on James’ sofa, quite good in a way that does funny things to the air in James’ lungs. The sofa is nothing special, beyond it being long enough for him to nap on, but it’s been elevated by Lewis’ presence. A piece of furniture fit for a king. Or an inspector anyway. Possibly the one sip of whisky he’s had on top of the beer has gone to his head. 

James sits down next to Lewis, gathering up the scattered sheet music into some semblance of order. Lewis takes another sip of whisky and sets his glass down in the cleared space.

“I know I said it already,” James says. “But if you hadn’t called Innocent’s bluff—”

“Ah, you’d do the same for me.” Lewis can’t possibly know the breadth of that truth; there is so much more James would do for this man. He can feel the weight of it curled in his chest, waiting for the moment to unfurl. It’s only been a few months. Lewis is his boss for God’s sake. But there it is.

Lewis’ hand comes to rest on James’ arm, much like when he kept James from toppling off the stone wall. This time it threatens to topple him off something else entirely. Maybe it’s the whisky. Maybe it’s this thing in his chest he’s still trying to stifle. Maybe it’s the inherent weakness of his being. But those fingers through his shirtsleeve without the fabric of his jacket in between are so warm, so welcome, so very nearly what his traitorous, eager heart is telling him to reach for. Like his inner elbow has become a conduit straight to his heart, to other regions he should most definitely not be thinking about right now. James doesn’t quite stifle a sharp intake of breath with another sip of whisky. 

“Did I hurt you?” Lewis pulls his arm away and James wants to say, _No, no, I don’t think you ever could, not on purpose anyway. Put your hand on me again._

Instead, he says, “It’s nothing. How’s your head?” Only barely resisting the urge to reach for the bandaged cut on Lewis’ forehead. He’s not in love, that would be ridiculous, he’s just grateful for the chance Lewis has given him.

“Fine. Head like an anvil, me. Your shoulder though—” 

“It does ache.”

“Hmm, it would.” Lewis picks up his whisky again.

“Mallory is heavier than he looks,” James adds, steering the conversation back to firmer ground. 

“He doesn’t look light. I couldn’t have held him that long.” 

“It’s the rowing,” James says. Lewis gives him a quizzical look. “Shoulder strength.” He shrugs but doesn’t quite manage to suppress a wince as the muscles in his right shoulder tug against the strain of previous exertion. It’s no worse than the first hard training session in the spring but it has been a while since he’s trained for competition.

“Should you be icing that?”

“Maybe,” James concedes. He stands, gesturing to Lewis’ almost empty glass. “Another?”

“Aye, cheers.” Lewis drinks the last sip and hands James the empty glass.

James refills both their glasses, starts toward the sofa, then changes his mind and goes back for the bottle. He deposits the bottle on the coffee table and passes Lewis his glass. Their fingers brush again. It’s his imagination surely, but it almost seems like Lewis’ touch lingers this time, deliberately even. James doesn’t look Lewis in the eye, he turns around and heads for the kitchen to find something to ice his shoulder with. 

There is a very freezer-burned bag of frozen peas behind the bottle of vodka. He shakes off most of the ice crystals and wraps it in a tea towel, pressing it to his shoulder as he leans against the breakfast bar. He takes a slightly awkward sip of whisky with his right hand while he holds the peas to his shoulder with his left. 

Though he wants nothing more than to sit next to Lewis again, he stays leaning on the breakfast bar. It’s safer this way. 

Lewis is perusing one of the pages of sheet music like he might actually know what he’s looking at. James is about to ask if he plays an instrument when Lewis looks up at him.

“You going to stand there all evening?”

“No, sir,” James shakes his head. He takes another awkward sip of whisky but stays where he is. 

Lewis gives him a look of mild concern.

“You all right, lad?” Lewis calls him lad all the time. This is no different. There is no extra note of affection there that can’t be explained away by whisky.

“Yeah, fine.” James takes a deep breath and tries in vain to settle the fluttering in his chest. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll say. Come back and sit down, I won’t bite.”

James’ brain bowls right over the fact that Lewis is offering him a seat in his own flat and blurts out, “Even if I asked?”

“Are you flirting with me, sergeant?” There is a lightness to Lewis’ tone, as if flirting may even be welcome.

“What if I were?” The fluttering in James’ chest is a cacophony of sensation.

“I’d say you should come over here and sit down.”

James’ brain doesn’t know how to react to that, but his body does. He pushes himself off the worktop and walks across the room. One foot in front of the other, until he’s at the sofa and sitting down next to Lewis. He sits close, with his body angled toward Lewis’, no longer resisting the urge to lean toward him. James’ eyes fall to Lewis’ lips as Lewis takes a sip of his whisky then places the glass on the coffee table.

Tiny wings beat out a frenzied rhythm against James’ ribcage; so much more than the awkward swooping dance his heart does at Lewis’ every casual touch. He is in trouble and he’s not sure he wants to get out of it. 

“Better?” Lewis asks, gesturing to the frozen peas James is still holding to his shoulder. 

“Honestly, sir, I can’t even feel it right now.”

Lewis smiles and there is unmistakable affection there, even more unmistakable than it has been all evening. “Robbie, lad.”

“Robbie,” James whispers. He lets the peas slide off his shoulder to land on the sofa somewhere behind him. 

“Jim,” Robbie says. 

“James,” James replies. 

Robbie’s look turns softer still. 

“James.” And oh. _Oh._ This _James_ is different to every other time he’s said it; there is a fondness, a tenderness even, in the shape of his name on Robbie’s lips. Robbie leans in a bit but doesn’t reach out and James realises that he’s waiting for James to take the lead. And that’s— That’s… A lot. 

More than a lot. Everything. He can’t be in love, not so soon, not with his boss. James has got to find a way to turn this sudden all-consuming affection into something manageable, box it back up into gratitude, and hope, and kindness, and respect. But now that all those pieces have been unfolded he’s never going to fit them into the box again. And yet, it’s almost comforting to put a name to this thing that he hadn’t even realised he’d been carrying. To know that love is still within the scope of his ability.

“Only if you want, lad,” Lewis says, his calm, steady gaze grounding James. 

“I don’t know if I—” 

“That’s all right.”

“But I do. I want—” James’ words fail him. He reaches for Lewis—Robbie—but stops, rubs his hand over the back of his own head, and sighs. If he reaches out, how much is he going to regret it later? If he doesn’t, how much more is he going to regret that? 

He reaches for his whisky instead and drains the glass. When he looks at Lewis, his face is so kind and open it almost takes James’ breath away. He can’t push the hope swirling in his chest back down again. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to.

James leans forward, tentatively raising his hand. Robbie holds his gaze as James’ fingers brush his cheek, trace his jaw and then come to rest over Robbie’s lips. Robbie smiles and James feels it on his fingertips; delicate, perfect. Robbie presses a gentle kiss to James’ fingers and goes right on smiling. The fluttering in James’ chest reaches a crescendo; a thousand thousand wings beating against his ribcage along with his heart and there’s no reason to try and stop them. James cups Robbie’s cheeks in both hands and presses his lips to that smile. 

_____


End file.
